


Shield

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Crowley's Sunglasses (Good Omens), First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 11:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Crowley's glasses are his shield against the world. He has a different shield against Aziraphale.





	Shield

Crowley knows Aziraphale understands that he uses his glasses as a shield against the world. It’s obvious, he supposes, when somebody you’ve known 6000 years always has a layer of darkened glass in front of his face. He always shrugs off questions with deflections about his eyes - claiming sensitivity, to mortals, and pointing out to Aziraphale that humans tend to have concerns about big yellow snake eyes glaring at them and _ they’re supposed to be keeping a low profile _ \- but he knows Aziraphale sees through that. He knows Crowley needs the single pane’s distance from the bustle and chaos of humanity, from anyone who might see his unguarded emotions. 

He knows that Crowley’s glasses are his shield - and he knows, too, that when they are alone, Crowley takes them off.

Crowley sometimes allows himself to imagine, in the dead of night, the pleased little wiggle Aziraphale might perform as he thinks about that. Aziraphale knows he is Crowley’s exception, the one being in the universe to whom his usual defences do not apply. Crowley surrenders his protective barriers the moment he and Aziraphale are alone, it’s true.

Crowley has other defences against Aziraphale. 

They’re not really against Aziraphale, of course; they’re a means of making sure Aziraphale puts up his own defences against _ Crowley _ . Against the demon’s foolishness, and the angel’s reckless innocence. Sometimes, as they sit together in the park or dine at one of those fascinating little restaurants Aziraphale always seems drawn to, the angel will look at Crowley so _ tenderly_, as if he’s not a demon at all. As if he’s a human, or perhaps one of those little delicacies he likes to consume. He looks at Crowley, sometimes, as if Crowley is a _ snack. _

Crowley, of course, will be the first to tell you that, in modern parlance, he _ is _ a snack. But he is not fit for Aziraphale’s consumption - never has been, never will be, never _ can _be. That’s the nature of the job.

So Crowley lowers his worldly shields when he steps into the back room of the bookshop, revealing the one defence that helps to keep them both safe, to keep their fragile Arrangement whole and unshattered, because if Aziraphale looks at him like that for just a second too long Crowley will forget everything and kiss him and then he will lose him forever. Worse, he might drag him down to his own level, and that is something Crowley will never do.

Crowley’s glasses are his defence against the world. His eyes are his defence against Aziraphale.

Horrible, yellow, reptilian things, they are. He knows it; he’s been told a thousand times how ugly they are, by humans who happened to catch a glimpse, by demons thankful they have respectable black eyes. They are monstrous, they are a sign of his demonism that he can never change, and they are his last hope in the battle against Aziraphale’s tenderness.

Aziraphale turns to him in the bookshop, one evening not long after it’s burned and been restored, and his fond expression reminds Crowley that he’s still wearing his glasses. He pulls them from his face and tucks them hastily into his jacket pocket. A close call, he thinks - but then he looks up, and Aziraphale is closer, now, his expression infinitely _ more _ gentle. Crowley blinks, just to make sure his eyes are _ there_.

“The world doesn’t know what it’s missing,” Aziraphale murmurs, as if he doesn’t mean to, and Crowley blinks again.

“Wh-? Sorry, angel?”

“Your eyes. They’re captivating.” Aziraphale shakes his head, makes as if to turn away, then stops, for all the world as though he’s decided he has more to say. Crowley holds his breath, terrified and hopeful all at once. “They say the eyes of the one you love are always enchanting, but I truly think, even if I _ wasn’t _ hopelessly in love with you-”

Crowley hears a choked noise and realises, to his utter horror, that it has come from his own throat.

“Angel-” He can’t be so cruel, his angel, as to offer a damned creature love and take it away, a sick joke. Aziraphale is _ not _so cruel. But it must be a joke, surely, how could anyone-?

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tells him quietly, so close now, hand lifting Crowley’s chin until the demon is forced to look at him, to meet the angel’s beautiful eyes with his repulsive ones. “I’m ready, now. To go at your speed.”

_ You go too fast for me, _ rings the echo in his head, and then, _ I’m ready now _ \- and then he leans forward so slightly even he barely feels it, and that seems to be all the answer Aziraphale needs. This love of theirs transcends all human imaginings, transcends the base rush of blood and body heat, but it seems only fitting that their coming-together should be sealed with that most human of gestures; a kiss.

Crowley sighs into it, helpless, breath stolen away by the angel who greedily tastes his lips and presses still closer, pinning the demon to his divinity with arms that once wielded a sword for God. Crowley should be burning, surely, this close to something so utterly holy, and he would go willingly into the flames for this feeling. But when Aziraphale steps back, Crowley is unscathed, his only injury the loss of the angel’s lips against his own.

“I love you,” he whispers, for fear that he will give the declaration all the volume he has suppressed along with these words for six thousand years.

And his guard is down, his shields forgotten, the gargoyles he thought he’d set to guard the cathedral of his heart transformed to stained glass windows of his soul, and he is consecrated by Aziraphale’s love; surely that is why he feels the heat burning him up inside. Aziraphale kisses him again, and a flood of emotion soothes the burns, soothes every wound he’s inflicted upon himself in six millennia of loving someone he can’t have. Of loving someone he _ could _have had, if only he hadn’t cared for him so much. It’s too exquisite an agony. Laughter babbles forth from the soft bed of his tongue; Aziraphale smiles against the torrent and releases him.

“I love you, too, my dear demon.”

Crowley laughs, delighted and slightly mad with the sudden joy of being given everything he’s ever wanted, and Aziraphale laughs too before stopping his mouth with kiss after kiss, benedictions the demon has never dared to dream of.

And later, they are quiet, and Crowley settles his head on his angel’s shoulder, and there are no shields between them at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @sameoldsorceress if you like!


End file.
